


If the Cities Burn

by StampedTradegy (TypicalInsomniac)



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Blood and Injury, Hero Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Hero Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Hero Logic | Logan Sanders, Hero agencies, M/M, Nothing is black or white it’s all a shade of blue, Take what you think morals are and this will make you burn that, Vigilante/Informant Janus, Villain Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Villain Morality | Patton Sanders, it’s all I can write, there’s a lot of angst, villain organizations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:41:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29164383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TypicalInsomniac/pseuds/StampedTradegy
Summary: Superheroes and powers are at the top of the news lately, especially since the number of villains with the same kind of supernatural ability are just growing and growing. Real life heroes and villains facing off! It’s something that would be unthinkable 40 years ago.Now they have to fight.Virgil Moore, otherwise known as Tempest, is one of the press’ favorite villains. Him and the Puppeteer Prince, or Roman Ruiz, as most call him, have battled since one learned of the other.It doesn’t matter what they want to do. It doesn’t matter if a hero is tired of the violence. Why would it matter if a villain gets hurt?They’re just heroes and villains, they don’t get to choose what happens in their story.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Janus Sanders/Logan Sanders, Nico Flores/Thomas Sanders
Comments: 11
Kudos: 22





	1. The New

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I’m Ollie, thank you for reading! First, a disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, they belong to the real Thomas Sanders. Only the story and plot is mine.  
> Anyway I am very excited to be writing again, so thanks for getting this far. I’ll leave a separate content warning at each of the chapter’s heads for specific things happening in the chapter.  
> Feel free to skip the chapter if that’s what you need. If there are very harsh things in it, I’ll include a summary at the end so no one misses out.  
> Thank you and enjoy!

Rain pours into the streets, blurring lights to the odd unlucky walkers’ eyes. Cars and busses and people making noise are always around, but the rain seemed to have slowed it all. 

Why would someone be out when they could gaze out a fogged window? See the purple-gray sky, see the puddles converging on every surface, with more drops softly disturbing the surface every second. 

Sparks flash around his raised fingers. They contrast against the darkness as much as the black, looming buildings accommodates it. Virgil drops his gaze down to the sparks, idly watching them twirl with his movements.

On top of a roof with rain soaking everything beneath the clouds, it’s hard to worry about being seen. 

Rarely anyone dares to look up anyway. Inside, outside, it doesn’t matter. He guesses he can’t blame them though— it would be terrifying to glance up and see an oddly dressed man fall off a building. 

Virgil extinguishes the sparks by closing his fist. He stands up from his crouch with a deep sigh of irritation. “Everything’s wet, I’m soaked, I’m standing all dismal on top of a building like freaking Batman—“

He steps off the ledge, still mumbling to himself. He falls down, down, down, to land lightly on his feet. Well hitting the ground running, as they say. It was more of a short jog. 

A gust of wind brushes over his shoes as he slows into a normal walk, as if it was holding to his legs as he dropped. He strides out of the back of the alley, which was drowned in shadows.

The gust rattles a few cans next to a man sitting by the dumpster. He’s layered in coats and has a dirty face. His eyes are open wide; so is his mouth. 

Virgil tilts his head forward at him before coming out of the alley. There aren’t many people around. It’ll be a short walk to some food and a blanket. _God, there’s a bat pin on his bag—_

  
  
“Have you heard back from Honey yet?” 

Virgil and Patton walk along the corridors side by side the next day. Daylight shines through the windows and pins the two in refracted water droplets. The latter was the one who asked, though his tone makes it seem like the question was a “routine polite” type of inquiry. 

He shakes his head anyway and glances down at Patton. They make two contrasting figures: one tall and lean, and the other nearly a head shorter but quite muscular. The color schemes seem off too. 

“They’re still in Italy dealing with the recent outbreak of heroes there,” Virgil answers, facing forward again. Their footsteps echo through the empty hallways. _Turn right, left, staircase up, and left again._

He pulls his hand out of his pocket to rub his nose. “Them and Paramount won’t be back for a few weeks still. Dyna, Tyrant, and the Doctor are rotating to the Hyde location with Section 2 tomorrow though.” 

Patton puts together two fingers in a salute position and jerks them towards the middle of the ceiling as they turn down the next hallway. A fizzling noise comes from the pearly black half-sphere sitting there. 

He continues looking towards the upcoming staircase. “You’re not supposed to know that, y’know. Maybe tell me outside of a tightly surveilled floor next time? I have no idea how you’re getting everyone’s schedules but it’s going to get both of us in trouble.” 

The tall one has to duck to not get caught by the other’s swinging hand on the second step. He chokes down a laugh. 

“Sorry _Wire,_ ” he pulls out the word in a taunt, “I forgot you still take Mister Cheese Stick seriously. I’m sure he doesn’t even check the recordings anymore.” 

Even Patton hides a chuckle at the nickname. “If you say so.” 

They take the last few strides to the door Virgil needs, right at the top of the stairs, but Patton grabs a chunk of his hair before he can open it. It forces Virgil to bend down with a wince. He shoves down the urge to fling the bat pin, which is now in his pocket due to embarrassment, at the offending friend. 

Patton makes sure to create eye contact, staring intently at the other. “Don’t make a fool of yourself, okay? Just— be careful.” 

“Will do, Mum.” 

He just tugs on Virgils hair harder. “People are talking about Transfers in my branch, Temp! Take me seriously!” He screws his face up. “I don’t want you to be one of them.” 

It’s rare for him to be this somber and surely after, Patton lets go to bump Virgil’s shoulder with his. Discomfort had already sunk into Virgil’s skin from Patton’s attitude. He flashes a not-so-reassuring smile at Virgil. Then he’s around the corner and out of sight. 

Does he really think Virgil will be Transferred? The pin is forgotten in his jacket. 

The upper management people say that only excelling individuals get Transferred, but every time someone does, Patton mumbles a prayer under his breath and refuses to watch them leave. 

Virgil stares at the dark wooden door. Heat curls in his stomach. So what if he Transfers? It just marks him as what he’s supposed to strive to be— the best. They haven’t had a Transfer in months. He should be happy if Virgil is getting Transferred, not warn him against it. Patton’s not stupid though, not in the logical sense, so why is he so uncomfortable with the idea? 

He twists the cold brass knob and steps inside. _Patton acts like the rare good things about this job are an express ticket to Sheol,_ Virgil thinks in distaste. They were both doing well just a moment ago and now they’re both irritated. He pushes the nagging thoughts of _What if he’s right_ to the back of his mind.

Behind the door is an empty hallway. The walls are white and the lights almost blinding. At the very end is another door identical to the first, which Virgil reaches quickly. His shoes click on the tiled floor. 

The absence of any darkness or shadow other than his own grates on his mind every time he comes through here. 

He gets called to one of these long hallways rather frequently so he should be used to it by now. Chilly air seems to sink deeper into his skin the farther along he walks. 

Virgil twists and pulls at his fingers in his pocket, a remarkably unnoticeable action that he hates doing. It makes his hands sweaty. 

Meetings, mission assignments, progress checks, assignment reports, all of it goes down in this room, and usually with different people each time. Floor 5, Room 501. 

He hates going in and he hates anything he comes out with. 


	2. Planet 1’s Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Virgil flings open the second door hard enough that it almost slams against the wall.

It’s a normal meeting, probably only for him to be given another assignment. He hasn’t been assigned one for a month, and the last one was such a success he assumed they were giving him a break. It’s about time he’s assigned somewhere again. 

Why was Patton so forceful about him being on his best behavior? _Patton’s_ already at the top. There’s no reason to get angry if Virgil— 

All of the color drains from his face and the burn in his chest goes cold. 

The blank hallway leads to a wide room with a dark rectangular table made of the same wood as the doors. Chairs line the sides and ends of it, which are all unusually empty. Except the very far chair. 

Virgil pulls his hands out of his pockets and puts them at his sides, spine automatically set as if there were cables pulling it straight. 

The dark-haired man on the other side of the room stares at him silently. 

Slowly, a transparent smile lifts his lips. A stretch of his cheek is gone, half of his teeth clearly visible through it. The extra skin folds awkwardly around his smiling mouth. 

Bile burns in Virgil’s throat. His tongue feels swollen. _That’s— The boss? Of everyone, of the whole organization. The boss._

The man leans forward slightly and folds gloved hands together on the table. 

“Take a seat, Tempest. I am Mercurius, but I’m sure you know the name,” he says. “I don’t believe we’ve met face-to-face like this yet. A shame.”

”Why are you here?” Virgil asks. It comes out as a hoarse murmur 

“I have an assignment for you.” 

Virgil is in the proffered chair now. He doesn’t know when he sat down. His face is still completely blank and his back is stiffer than the table. 

“You will be supervising a transfer—“ His breath just barely catches. “—of materials close to the South Upside Agency. There aren’t supposed to be many on duty in a few days, so that is when you’re going.” 

Mercurius sits back languidly in his chair. He seems amused, even. He brushed right past Virgil’s question. “A small team, including you, will trade packing trucks with the other group that will meet you there,” he explains. “Someone wearing a red bandana will hand you a package as the trade begins. Accept it and bring it back to me immediately.” 

“Yes, sir. Who is my team made of?” Virgil’s voice is steady but his hands shake in his lap. 

What’s left of Mercurius’ lips pull upward. “I’ll have someone bring a list to you before you leave today, along with the rest of the details of the procedure.” 

He attempts to relax his body in the face of the boss. Virgil nods once before flashing a smile that passes as awed, his arms laid and crossed on the tabletop. “I’m honored to have a personal conference with you—“

“I’m not finished, boy.” 

Mercurius’ expression doesn’t change, but his eyes darken. With malice? Virgil’s smile waivers. _Well, sucking up doesn’t work._

“Report directly to me from this day on forward. I will be giving you more frequent assignments to keep you busy.” Mercurius has a semblance of a smile that lessens to just his mouth tilted upward. “This is but the first one, so do not disappoint me. Good things will happen to you if you do not.” 

A chill rips through Virgil’s bones, but he keeps his lips curled and his gaze direct. “Thank you, I will not let you down.” 

“Yes. Now go.” Mercurius waves Virgil off with sudden indifference. “Return to this room after you have the package.” 

Virgil can feel Mercurius’ stare boring into his back as he turns around. The feeling doesn’t leave until he’s crossed the hallway and gone down the staircase he came up laughing before. 

Nausea attacks him as soon as he ambles off the last stair and his glass facade crashes to his feet. Virgil slips down the wall, grabbing at his stomach, with sweat dripping off his temple. 

For the first time, the blank hall hadn't bothered him in the slightest. 

  
Virgil storms through the office corridors a floor down twenty minutes later, passing open-walled conference rooms, closed wooden doors with “Busy” signs hung, and even more of the same doors but opened. 

The hallways pass in a rush and no one passing tries to interact with him. This isn’t his floor. He doesn’t know many people here. Why did he stop on the fourth? 

_Patton works here,_ a bold whisper reminds. _You’re looking for him._

_Shut the fuck up,_ he whispers back. Unfortunately, he thinks he hissed it out loud instead of to his unhelpful internal monologue since a girl with wires strung through her hair stares at him as he passes her. 

Patton isn’t the goal. He never should have been the goal. The first real interaction between them was caused by an assignment gone wrong. 

Virgil was torn up, bloody, with long rips in his clothes and lacerations covering his whole left forearm. Patton just happened to catch him outside their building (and catch Virgil before he hit the ground and passed out). 

It was a coincidence, an unlucky turn of events, and there was no reason for them to interact again. 

But it’s been two years. And Virgil is scouring Patton’s workplace once again. 

No matter how often he gripes about his independence on the intelligence agent, he’d never seriously think about cutting ties. They’ve saved each other’s asses too many times to count, and they’ve seen each other at their day jobs anyway. Virgil can’t get rid of Patton even if he wanted to. 

He circles the extensive floor twice, but Patton never appears. More people are around now though. It's getting darker outside, and that's when this department comes alive. 

Before someone can approach him to ask about his intentions on the floor he definitely doesn't belong on, Virgil moves on to a training room. Every floor has at least one, even in the one department where physical presenting powers aren't very important.

It's clear. Which is the one plus to the sun going down. Again, either way, these agents don't favor sweaty training. 

There are scorch marks across the walls, puddles gathered by the practice dummies, among other evidence of people trying to perfect their powers anyway. He can feel the static that was rising to the top of his skin start to float around him after being tightly contained.

Virgil spins to one of the punching bags on a stand. Tingles zip under his muscles like electricity running towards a circuit. _Nervous energy? Tension? What's that? I've never heard of her._

He steps closer towards it. By directing the current to his fist as he draws back- he can release it through his skin at the instant his knuckles hit the bag. 

“Virgil!” 

More electricity discharges from him than expected as he recoils from the shout. The tingles race towards the “opening” before he can snatch them back. 

The punching bag is flung backward, and it lifts from the ground before slamming into the wall. 

The scratched-up wall that is at least 10 feet away. 

Patton gapes at him from the entrance doors. Virgil regards the bag which is now laying on the floor with more than a bit of alarm. He stands there, ignoring Patton’s stare and clutching his wrist. “Crap.”

  
“Sorry! I'm so sorry. Virgil, I am so sorry--” Patton goes on and on while air-holding onto Virgil’s wrist. He insisted that they sit down, so he's crouched on the floor and Virgil sits cross-legged in front of him. 

There's a raw, jagged burn following the veins in his arm and wrist. There are other thin white lines across both palms and arms, though a lot of them are faded enough that one would have to be searching for them to see them. 

Still, Patton fusses uselessly over the new one, hands flitting just above the skin. “I’m sorr-” 

Virgil stabs his finger at Patton’s forehead. It makes the other’s hand fly up to cup the small red mark. Stark betrayal enters Patton’s eyes. 

“I’m okay, Patton. Don't yell suddenly like that when I'm trying to practice, and it’ll be fine,” Virgil repeats for the third or fourth time. He gets all the way through the assurance without Patton interrupting him for the first. 

He still looks concerned, so Virgil adds, “It’s not nearly as bad as it could have been, right? I can go to the bathroom and run it under cold water, and bandage it as soon as we leave.” 

That makes Patton perk up. He hops up from his crouch and offers a hand out to Virgil. It hangs there for a moment as Virgil looks at Patton’s smile. 

It's a real smile, one where his eyes scrunch up behind his glasses. Unlike the parting grin Patton left before leaving Virgil to the room. 

The terrible meeting room is now affectionately called “Planet 1” in Virgil’s mind. A place he would not like to visit again, yet the reason why is exactly why he has to keep going to it. 

He grabs the outstretched hand and pulls himself to his feet. They don't talk much as they maneuver to the nearest bathroom. Both boys seem to have something on their minds. 

Another person seems to gather in the hallway every minute. When one finds their room or goes past a corner, another exhausted-appearing agent takes their place, all moving different directions. About six people in a group walk past the pair, whispering about formal clothes. 

Patton comes into the bathroom with Virgil. He sits on a nearby sink as Virgil occupies another to clean and wrap the burn. 

Small hisses of air escape from Virgil’s teeth during the semi-painful process. Patton appears confused at the bandage rolls Virgil pulls out of his bag, but says nothing about it. 

“So did you know who was going to be in the meeting room?” Virgil finally asks. It was more of him blurting, really. The answer has been the only thought occupying his mind since he went around to find Patton. To question him. 

“What?” Patton chokes on the word. He can lie fantastically, it's in his job description, but somehow that skill switches off when it's Virgil he's trying to lie to. “W-what do you mean? Who was in there?” 

“Come on. You said ‘just be careful’ and warned me not to make an ass of myself.” Virgil ties the bandage off and glances at Patton from the corner of his eye. “Who were you warning me against?” 


	3. Napping During a Crisis is Easier Than You’d Think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it’s me again. I know it’s still early in production to set a schedule, but I will try to make the updates fairly regular. Let me know if you’d prefer more updates and smaller chapters too!  
> Also I promise more exciting stuff will come, you’ll need this background later.  
> That is all, enjoy!

The room is silent. It seems like hours, not a mere moment, where Patton can’t do anything but stare wide-eyed at Virgil. He flings his hands up palms out, and panic trembles in his voice. “I didn't know who was going to be in there, I promise! I still don’t know who you were talking to.” 

Patton hurries on, “There’s a rumor that we’re having another Transfer soon and there were four meetings like yours in the same hallway today. I think they’re narrowing down who will go.” 

Virgil inquires further and learns that the agents that were seen walking into the rooms went in about ten minutes apart. After the earliest person, Virgil, came out, fifteen minutes later the next did. No one except for the agents left the rooms, even after two hours. The intelligence agents who were checking gave up after the two and a half hour mark. 

Only one of the attendees other than Virgil was seen acting skittish. The other three returned to their floors and offices appearing overjoyed after their brief meetings. 

He still doesn’t know why being Transferred is so bad in Patton’s mind, but at least he knows something about the conference now. 

He wasn’t the only one to have been met with, but he was the only one to have seen Mercurius. 

  
Patton leads Virgil to his office after the latter finishes wrapping his arm up. The air between them is a little tense, but Virgil’s pretty sure that lives in his own mind. 

Patton sits at the rolling chair in the middle of the small room and turns it to face his computer screen, pushing off the floor to get there. 

Pale blue paint with white flowers covers the walls. Photos of people laughing are scattered on it, along with schedules, upcoming events, and bits of memorabilia from Patton’s past. 

Patton pauses his typing to glance back at Virgil. He’s standing there looking at the walls awkwardly. 

Patton’s eyes soften despite what happened earlier. He gestures toward another chair with a cushion on the seat that’s to the side of the room for Virgil to sit in. He also flicks his fingers at the string lights following the ceiling trim, turning the small bulbs to pale green. 

With another smile, he turns back to the screen and continues his work. 

Virgil has nothing else to do except wait for the runner with his paperwork to show, so he might as well watch Patton work. 

He takes the chair, which is sitting against a wall close to the door, and pulls out a pair of black and electric purple headphones. Virgil tucks his bag under his chair with his foot resting in an arm strap before sitting back and turning on music from his phone. 

The lyrics come on slow at first, stilted, until the music spikes and sweeps his mind away. 

  
A hand clutches his shoulder and jerks it back and forth. Virgil clumsily swats back at the hand as his consciousness returns. A loud vocal warning sounds blurry and far away. 

Yet the grip loosens, then disappears, and he's not shaking anymore. Virgil pries his eyes open. 

A tall blonde woman stands robotic-like with her head tilted to the side. She has on a blood-red dress that reaches just above her knees, her short hair complimenting her jaw, and white painted nails tore jagged at her sides. 

The woman- Virgil recalls her name is Fren- stares past him, and Virgil’s eyes flick that way too. Patton’s mouth is still moving, face flushed. Virgil's ear pops when he moves his head. The world’s sound settings un-mute. 

“-sleeping, I told you to wait until he woke up. You've been here for ten seconds and it's late, I'm sure you don't have anyone else to deliver to.” 

Oh, she's the runner. That makes sense, why would Virgil know her name otherwise? There's only a couple of the runners that are androids and named. Weren't her eyes brown, though? 

Fren straightens and turns toward Virgil in sharp, jerky movements. As if she felt him wake up without looking. 

Startling silver irises stare. After a moment, she shoves her hand towards Virgil. Her stiff fingers unwrap from an envelope. Fren doesn't blink or move until Virgil takes it. 

Then she rotates like her feet are on a gear and strides out of the wide-open doorway. 

Patton follows her line to the door right after she disappears, slamming it closed. He turns the deadbolt. 

By the time he faces Virgil, the anger in his cheeks had faded to a dull pink. “Are you alright?” 

The words barely reach Virgil’s ears. He unfolds the first paper in the envelope and the big fat red letters ingrain themselves into his mind. 

**Warren Esteemed Labs**

That’s where he’ll be going in— Virgil glances down the paper. On Thursday? 

“What’s on Thursday?” 

“It’s when my next assignment is,” Virgil answers absently. Looks like he said that out loud. He skims down the text. “Three days doesn’t seem like enough time to prepare, but I think that was on purpose.” 

Patton comes closer to Virgil’s seat, peering over the edge of the alleviated paper. “Why would it be on purpose? The point of assignments is to assign the best person to do it, and for them to do it well.” 

Virgil’s head jerks up in surprise to see Patton laughing. “Sorry, I know the company’s hierarchy effects who gets what assignment more than anything, I wanted to see if you were listening.” Patton snaps his fingers in front of his face as an example, with giggles still escaping him. 

A quiet burst of air through his nose and his chest bouncing slightly signifies a laugh from Virgil. 

He turns back to the envelope and flicks through the other papers. 

A written brief, physical descriptions of the building, trucks, trading people and team, and the lab’s guard schedule. The rest of the technical stuff is also detailed inside. 

“So?” Patton says. 

“So?” Virgil echoes back. He slips all the papers back inside the envelope and sets it in his lap. 

“Come on, Virge, the big question.” Virgil stares back at him blankly. “Who did you meet with?” 

He blinks. “Oh.” 

Patton seems almost excited to know. He bounces on the balls of his feet and a familiar beaming smile rests on his mouth. But the bouncing could be from nervous energy, and Patton’s eyes are crinkled in a way that worries the other. 

So he lies. 


	4. Red Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 1/2

“It was a higher officer, a Kaleidoscope.” Patton’s mouth drops open. Virgil continues on smoothly. “He said his name was Orphis and that I’ll be reporting to him for assignments now.” 

“A Kaleidoscope? Really?” Patton mumbles to himself. 

Someone of that rank would fit with Patton’s notion that a “higher-up” was meeting with Virgil and the four others. Kaleidoscopes are agents that were Transferred and came back. 

It doesn’t happen often, but he guesses that’s the point. _Transients_ , they were nicknamed. They never stay at one building or base long, and they would have been gone with no contact for at least half a year after being “Transferred” before dropping in again. Like ghosts. Then they’re gone at the next drop of a pin with no word to anyone. 

It’s a stupid name to make fun and hide jealousy, and a stupid way to make normal agents feel superior over the best of the best. 

Virgil Moore with the same ability as a sock rubbing across a carpet could never dream of being part of them. 

Patton walks over to his computer and clicks some buttons to shut it off. His back is to Virgil when he asks about Transfers. 

Bitter irritation burns in Virgil’s throat, but he manages not to choke on it. “I’m not being Transferred. To the Kaleidoscopes or otherwise.” Patton keeps staring at the black screen. He nods slightly as if to himself, then spins around with a smile on his face. 

“I’m proud of you for how far you’ve gotten anyway, kiddo! This is an ugly job but you’ve really made the best of it.” It seems genuine, surprisingly. Patton’s eyes are warm. 

“Thanks, Pat.” 

  
The two leave the building shortly after and part ways at the closest bus stop. Patton waits at the bench while Virgil continues walking on. 

One has a satchel hung at his side, and the other a bag on his back that has an envelope inside.   
  


The others at the crosswalk look miserable and are shrouded in sheets of gray. Most are wearing shades of it too, businesswomen and men blending into the rain with their suits and ties. 

Virgil’s hood is shadowing his face, but the rain isn’t bothering him much. Downpours have been coming on and off recently, they really should have thought ahead before leaving work for the day. Or just called a taxi. 

The light turns and the small huddle starts to cross the road. Virgil has a foot on it when a flash of red in the corner of his eye catches his attention. He turns around. 

A misshapen figure is running towards him, bright red coat flapping around them and one hand over their hat to keep it in place. They splash through puddles on the sidewalk in their hurry. Their fancy boots are surely soaked, but they don’t seem to care, just wanting to get to the crosswalk before the light changes. The guy slides to a stop next to Virgil. 

His face falls as cars run over the white crosswalk lines in blurs of light. He doesn’t seem to notice that Virgil is standing there. 

The Virgil in question is also staring at the speeding cars with disappointment. He just wants to get home, man. It’s been a long day. 

The man in a red jacket glances back at Virgil. He didn’t notice it before, but the hassled guy is in the same getup as the business people from before. He seems different somehow, though. His tie is red too. 

Then Virgil’s eyes skip up to his face, and his limbs freeze in place. Water is dripping down the guy’s cheeks— a hero’s cheeks. Roman Ruiz is at a crosswalk. Beside Virgil. 

This has just become a much, much longer day. 


	5. Meet the Clay Bender

_Soon we must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy.  
-Dumbledore_

The smell of clay fills Roman’s head as he breathes in (he chokes on the sulfuric scent before he can enjoy the earthy clay). His workshop must be one of his favorite places in the world. 

The half-shaped head stares at him from the molding table. He glances down at it and his face screws up. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m checking the clay.” 

A statue has no right to judge him, and it’s just a head without a nose or lips at that. Roman strides to the kiln and peers into the transparent window. The other parts of the clay person is coming along well at least. He’s not stalling, it’s fine. 

There’s a separate room for where the project will go once it’s assembled fully, but that won’t be for at least a week. Making these things are so time-consuming. 

Roman sighs. In the meantime, the people are calling. What is this, the third press event this month? 

He tosses a towel over the head’s eyes before climbing the stairs out of his workspace. They’re going to get tired of pizza and takeout Chinese soon. 

“Ro-Roooooooo!” A husky voice calls in a drawn-out yell. A short green blur sprints into Roman’s sight— running straight at him. He doesn’t have time to sidestep before a heavy mass hits him in the chest and knocks him to the ground. 

The German shepard wags his tail ferociously with his front paws on Roman’s chest. 

Roman, in turn, groans. “Remus!” 

Remus pops out from the corner, a huge grin about to touch his ears spread over his lips. “Hey, Ro-Ro.” Remus directs his next words at the dog. “Good boy, Orion!” Then he looks at Roman again. “Orion’s saying hello.” 

“Get him off me, Remus.” 

The younger brother pats his side, and the shepard immediately climbs off Roman to stand next to his owner. Remus vigorously rubs the dog’s fur in between the straps of Orion’s green vest. 

Clambering to his feet and brushing his shirt off, Roman levels a glare at Remus. “You trained him to not jump years ago, there’s no way you didn’t tell him to do that.” 

He shrugs with that ridiculously bright smile still on his face. Remus stretches his arms and yawns. “Dogs are like that sometimes. We have that press thingy in an hour though, you should probably change.” 

Remus is already dressed nicely for it, Roman notices. 

It’s supposed to be a charity event; it’ll end up being interview after interview in an uncomfortable room with cameras and microphones all around. Less than a quarter of the proceeds from airing it will go to a homeless shelter, but they’ll still call it a charity event. As they always do. 

“Well hurry up, then,” Remus ushers. He waves his hands in a shooing motion and Orion wags his head up and down like he’s mirroring it. 

Ten minutes later, Roman has on a nice outfit that resembles Remus’. They head out after Roman tosses Remus his mask from the side table and grabs his own hat. 

There’s not much point in it. Everyone already knows their names already, what does a face add? But Remus insists, the cameramen insists, the interviewers always insist— they like it, so he does it despite it being impractical. Only a small toll to pay! 

The two come out of the house and down the walkway with Orion ambling along beside Remus with no issue. Then Roman feels a drop on his head. 

He covers the spot with his hand instinctively and glances up at the sky. Black, looming clouds are rolling over the darkening sky. A few more drops land on his nose, and he screws up his face. 

“It’s really going to rain again?” Roman mumbles under his breath. He keeps looking up as if his glare would pull all the raindrops back into the clouds. When he glances to the side for Remus, his brother is nowhere in sight. Did he keep walking? 

Roman scans down the street and sees Remus stick his head out of the window of a car. 

“Uncle Tom said I could use it!” Remus defends before Roman can say anything. 

Still, the latter strides up to the car with a glare. “We don’t have a car because _you_ crashed _mine_ and yours is in a lake somewhere. There’s no way he lent you his.” 

Remus pouts, pulling his head in the window again. The window starts slowly rolling up. “Fine then, you can walk if you don’t want a ride.” 

An ominous rumble growls in the distance. “I’ll ride, but I’m driving.” 

Roman tries to pull on the handle. The door doesn’t budge. He pulls on it again and stares at Remus. _He did not—_

“No take-backs, thems the rules,” Remus states with a grin. 

He waves at Roman by scrunching his fingers into a fist, then straightening them, and repeating, while his other hand lowers to the shift. 

Banging on the window with his fist, Roman leans in to avoid the quickening rain. “Remus!” 

The car starts gradually rolling forward with Roman clinging to it, gaining speed as it heads down the street. Finally he has to let go, and he nearly falls on his rump. 

The rain is coming on faster. Shallow puddles are already forming inside the cracks in the road, which Roman splashed through when getting dragged on his feet. 

He straightens up and throws his voice as far as he can into the sheets of rain as Thomas’ car speeds out of view. “I have the only key, Remus!” Roman droops in defeat even before he shouts the last word.

He doesn’t know if it was supposed to bring Remus back, but at least it was true. If Roman gets home before his brother after this press thing, he can lock _Remus_ out of the house and out in the rain. 

He probably couldn’t manage to do that to Orion, though. Sweet dogs don’t deserve the things irritating brothers do. 

_How far away is the bus station?_

Then black dress shoes are pounding over damp asphalt while water pelts down around them. A fine spray from squealing tires soaks the pants and shirt accompanying the nice shoes. 

Roman shudders to a stop and watches the bus roll away, heart dropping to his shoes and getting all wet. 

It hits him like a boulder that he’d be late to the press event. He’s never been late. It’s not in his reputation to be late to an event like this, he’s a hero worthy of such constant interviews! 

Soon he’s sprinting past the station, racking his mind for where the next one is, water hitting his face and legs and arms as bullets. 

Roman barely skids to a stop to not run into the busy road two intersections ahead. He slams his palm on the button a few times impatiently, wishing the light would change colors this instant. He doesn’t have much time before this event begins, especially since if he got on a bus right now, the ride would still be twenty or thirty minutes. And his _suit_ is _wet._


	6. An Awkward Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello :D

Off again in an instant, a red figure flying over white lines on dark streets. Blocks down now, Roman sees the traffic light turn green where he has to cross. Cars slowly start rolling forward as if they’re in slow motion. 

_Oh my God, oh my God, ohmyGodohmyGod—_

Roman sprints in front of the line of cars, pumping his legs faster than he ever has before— cars honk and one starts to push him over. _Good freaking God and hell below—_

He clears the street and keeps sprinting as fast as before over the new sidewalk. A mix of sweat and rain slides down Roman’s face. 

He almost died, he could have died, why is he being so stupid during night when it’s raining! So stupid, so stupid, he doesn’t wish for death, he promises he doesn’t have a death wish. He just has to get to the bus stop before the next bus leaves or he’ll be so very late to the press event. 

The next crosswalk comes into view. The small group huddled there, likely people that just got off work from how many tall buildings are around, are already starting to walk across. Roman’s too far away. The other bus stop had already sent out its last bus for the day, so Roman had no luck there. The one a few more blocks down from here was his only shot. 

If only he can get there. He goes faster and faster, coat blowing around him, and his hat threatening to fly off. He put on a tie for this! 

The group is across. The traffic light turns green. 

Roman slides to a stop right before being tossed forward by a car. Rain is slick on his face, and he feels his stomach crumble up into a paper wad and fall onto the ground. 

He’s going to be late. He’s going to be really late. Remus is probably cackling right now, and maybe Roman deserves it! 

He let Remus fend for himself last time, but his brother can teleport, for God’s sake. So no! He does not deserve it. 

If Remus can glitch through whatever layers of reality there are and be able to go wherever he wants to, he’s not going to be late to anything he doesn’t want to be late to. And he’s at least a little late to most press events. Even when he drives himself there. 

A thought strikes him and Roman glances back. He nearly reels into traffic when he sees a person standing there looking at him. 

Their eyes don’t quite meet his, but he is staring like a creep. Questions fill his head, like _why didn’t they walk with the others? How aren’t they bothered by the rain? Hmm? Why aren’t they that wet yet when it started pouring ten minutes ago?_

So many questions. He can’t stop the questions. They keep on coming. 

The thoughts get shoved aside when the person does meet his eye. It’s only for a fraction of a second, but Roman swears he sees lightning flash in them. 

Not a reflection of a bolt, though that would be absolutely terrifying in itself, but a white-hot piece of one. It sparks through their eyes before dissolving. 

It makes Roman take a half-step back, and he smiles awkwardly. _What in the world?_ “Hello?” 

The person practically ducks. They tug their hood to shadow more of their face, turning away, and even the bits of dark brown hair and pale skin that were visible disappears from view. 

Roman huffs internally. Honestly, the reaction took him by surprise. They seemed like they would be nice, if a bit gloomy. Their jacket seemed cool. 

Roman also turns away, a sheepish flush warming his cheeks. The red is partly from stinging raindrops, to be fair. 

He should probably stop assessing people by what they’re wearing either way. There’s almost always a bias there for homemade clothes. 

The cool jacket in question is black with plaid purple patches sewn in and a dark purple lightning design embroidered around the zipper. 

Roman’s flush deepens, and he thanks everything that makes the earth spin that the guy isn’t looking at him anymore. He seriously has to stop geeking out about clothes, it’s horrible. 

The crosswalk sign indicates he can walk now. The cars are all ordered up again on the starting line, ready for their traffic light to yell go. 

He bolts across without a glance back. The admiration for the random person’s jacket is already lost from his mind by the time he’s planted his feet on the road. 

  
It doesn’t dawn on him until he plops down on a bus seat that sticks to his soaked clothes that they could have recognized him as a superhero. Then just acted awkward about it. After that fun thought, the heat in Roman’s cheeks return. He groans in embarrassment and tilts his head back against the seat. 

  
If the notion came sooner and Roman had looked back, there would only be sheets of pounding rain to see. His mysterious fan was gone before the famous Puppeteer Prince thought about their jacket. Oh, well, no loss. 


	7. Please Refrain From Being Stupid in the Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for not getting this out sooner, I know I’ve been giving a new chapter every couple of days and it’s been more like a week. I’ve moved schools, did testing, took a huge standardized college test, and some other family stuff.   
> Again, very sorry, but the next chapter will be up soon and hopefully it’ll go back to our scheduled program.

“I have one last question for you, Puppeteer Prince.” 

Roman smiles, turning his head invitingly towards the interviewer. Remus is sitting back in his chair next to Roman with his hands propped up behind his head. 

“Of course,” he replies. “Go on ahead.” 

She’s one of the less pleasant interviewers to deal with, but she’s also irritatingly persistent. “Thank you, Puppeteer— So when will this surprise event of yours be taking place? And where?” 

Georgia presses on without a response from Roman, leaning forward against the table that separates them. “There has been rumors for a week and a half now that you have not addressed. Will there be a party in that manner at all?” 

The camera light blinks ominously. _Remember she’s the last interviewer for tonight and hold your patience,_ Roman grits in his head. 

“He did want to keep it on the low for a while longer, but—“ 

Roman stares at Remus when the other starts to reply. This was not a part of the plan, why is he responding? Roman is tired, and his stomach is aching, and he wants this to be over. _Do not bait the interviewers idiot._ He gives a right-lipped smile towards the camera 

“—there is a party! It will be dedicated to how our hero careers have progressed, and how grateful we are to be able to help our city.” Remus smiles rather nicely. 

It takes Georgia a moment to respond. The bright-as-the-sun reporter smile she always wears wavers ever so slightly. 

“How exciting!” 

Remus nods. “Yep.” 

Neither of them say anything for a moment. Just. Staring. The air ripples between the two with physical tension the cameramen manage to feel. 

It makes Roman’s head spin, and he jumps in. “Exciting indeed! We’ll release more updates as we can, but I can say that it will be a surprise for everyone.” Roman bites the last word directly towards Remus. His brother smirks, barely holding in his laughter. 

Georgia visibly perks up. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from two of our cities’ own rising heroes! Well thank you for your time, but unfortunately ours is up today.” 

She turns towards the camera and looks into the lens as if she’s staring into the soul of every person watching at home. “That was Puppeteer Prince and Cortex at the Grand Hyde venue. I’m Georgia Hanks with SSL Broadcasting, bringing you the latest in the superhero world nation-wide. Have a good night everyone.” 

  
“Time for some McFucking food,” Remus says as he approaches Thomas’ car, lone in the parking lot. Orion clambers into the backseat when Remus opens the door for him. 

Roman follows closely behind this time, his door shutting a second before Remus’. He pops Remus on the back of the head hard, snatching the keys from his brother’s hand at the same time after they’re all inside. 

_Why? Why?_ They were in that place for well over three hours, answering questions and going along with different reporters’ little skits for both live broadcasting and “to be kept for later” recordings. 

They both went through the pains to change outfits between each new radio station or TV channel to make it all seem legit. 

One of the unspoken policies for young superheroes is that they can’t be bothered twelve times a week for singular interviews. Meaning all of them at once, for some stupid reason. Stupider than the decisions Remus makes when he gets bored, which is a feat in itself. 

“You— You pompous fool!” Roman splutters out at last. He can’t manage anything else with the disdain in his throat already. 

Numbers for the cost and time to throw a party on a large scale, like Georgia is now expecting, swarms through Roman’s head. 

Remus rubs the back of his head and glances at him, but there’s a huge grin on his face instead of a grimace. “What? I had to give that lady’s ego a blow, she was clearly asking for it.” 

A mix of the emotions startled, confused, and irritated, comes out of Roman’s mouth as quite unintelligible sounds while his hands wave around uselessly. 

“There. Is. No. Party,” he decides on replying when the noises finish. Each word comes out distinctly as its own sentence. 

Remus shrugs. “Now there is. We’d better start planning, I heard it’s soon.” 

Orion barks and flops his head down on Remus’ lap. He gives Roman the widest, most glittery puppy-dog eyes the grown adult has ever witnessed, breaking down Roman’s defense in seconds. 

He clambers quite loudly into the driver’s seat after tearing his eyes away from Orion’s, as all three of them were smushed into the back. “Fine. Fine!” He yields, exasperated. “We’re throwing a party!” 

Remus cheers and Orion wags his tail. 

It slaps Remus in the face. 

  
  
Roman flops down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a bone-tiredness aching through his body.

He enjoys talking; he does. But those interviews are horrible after the first hour. He even declined getting takeout afterward with Remus this time. Sure it was partly due to irritation about him making up a party to adhere to a rumor (the purpose being to spite an interviewer, which is usually an acceptable reason), but still. 

He twists around to lay on his side, the pillow under his head tucked by his chin, too. His phone light shines onto his face and burns his eyes with the brightness of a small sun. 

When the glare becomes bearable, Roman starts aimlessly scrolling through apps. _Drama this, political figure that, men in skirts, ladies in suits..._

His recommended topics are fairly regular, so none of it surprises him anymore. 

Even the superhero x superhero fanfics. 

But then video after video of the interviews gradually appear. Clips from the broadcasted ones, commentary from people on them, and excited talk about the so-called party, published not two hours after he was done with all of it. 

It seems like the general public of young kids and teenagers are more excited about the party than Georgia the Interviewer was. _Interviewer Georgia? G Interview? Miss Georgia?_

Warmth fills his chest as he continues scrolling. There are so many of these kids in the city and in other cities that look up to him as a hero. He wouldn’t have even entertained the idea of being a public figure a little kid could take pride in when he discovered his abilities. 

Of course he is rather awesome, handsome, powerful, compassionate— the list could go on. It’s essential for a hero to look the part after all. 

When footage of villain attacks and battles (a specific villain against Roman himself, though he won’t let thoughts about it linger) start rolling into his recommended, Roman calls it a night. 

Shutting off his phone, he plugs it into the wall and rolls onto his back. Nothing but the popcorn ceiling stares back at him, but he keeps watching it. 

The image of the villain (not) previously mentioned worms its way into Roman’s head. 

Dark clothes, lightning purple embroidery, a wicked smirk that would melt the East witch on sight, and who could forget the stupidly irritating helmet piece that’s not actually a helmet? How does someone make a retractable helmet? 

It’s unfair that the longer Roman scrolls through social medias, the more the infamous Tempest shows up. He closes his eyes, banishing the picture of the villain from his head. 

Tempest has been rather quiet lately; it’s worrisome. They haven’t battled in a few weeks now. That villain must be up to _something_. Isn’t it always during the lapse in conflict where the protagonist lets down their guard that their foe strikes with something so big they can’t fight against it? Well Roman won’t fall for it. No siree. 

Drowsiness falls over him again, and he tucks his hands under his head to welcome it. There’s a party to plan, a villain to find, and some clay still needing shaping, so he has to get enough sleep. Sleep. Yes. 

But the satisfaction gained from Orion popping Remus with his tail will let him stay awake forever. 


	8. Patrol

_What’s to a city if there’s no one left; what’s to a road with no cracks?_ Roman hums under his breath, leisurely letting his soles sweep the pavement. 

A small bag filled with clay is tied to his belt and swings at his side, with a sword sheath sitting next to it; both heavy with their respective objects. They don’t weigh his stride down any. Despite the occasional puddle and person rushing home, he owns the sidewalk. 

Roman does wish that he could do daytime patrols— or no patrols at all really. There’s no point to them, and if he could go without seeing one more petty crime in a dark street corner in his lifetime, it would be too many. 

A huge crash in an alley a few feet away spills tins onto the sidewalk. A muffled shriek comes next, making Roman draw the bag from his belt. He sighs as he starts to run toward the sound. 

It seems like he spoke too soon. The scream sounded like a woman’s, and she’s struggling. 

Another shriek pierces his ears before a figure dashes out of the alley. They barrel straight down Roman’s way, head down and a bag swinging wildly in their hand. The other person, seemingly the one who screamed, rushes out after them. 

She spots Roman and point a desperate finger at him. “Stop him! Stop him! That’s mine!” the woman screeches. 

He jolts up in surprise and tries to swipe at the runner. A long clay chunk of a half-formed staff flies out of his hand, landing near the person. 

They pull their head up after seeing clay splat onto their shoes and Roman catches a flash of blue-grey eyes and a freckled face. Then their movements seem to happen in slow motion. 

The runner’s eyes widen, fear and shock mingling in his expression and his lips parting. He twists on his heel, shifting his body away from Roman and turning past him in a split second. Their clothes just barely brush before he takes off down the road. 

Before Roman can un-short circuit his limbs, the other guy had already flung himself down— somewhere. Roman has no clue. Lost in the maze of street corners and random dead ends that Roman has no way of clearing without having a lead. 

Instead of trying, though his feet nearly jolt him that direction, he spins towards the lady. She’s just as shocked as he is that he didn’t stop the thief. 

She glances up at Roman with thinly veiled anger as he approaches her. “My bag— why didn’t you stop him? He was right there!” 

“Ma’am I’m sorry—“ 

“It’s fine!” She snaps. She paces around in a tight circle, muttering to herself with her hands waving about. “It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. I’ll just get some more! I’ll get more.” 

Before Roman can respond, the rather short woman pushes past him. “Thanks for nothing!” She shouts back. She keeps striding down the block and eventually turns, disappearing from view. 

Roman stares at where she went, then where the other person ran, eyes hopping back in forth. Exasperation builds in his chest and releases as another deep-rooted sigh. 

“This is why I don’t do night patrol,” he mutters darkly to himself, spinning around to continue on his original path. “The only reason Remus isn’t doing it is because he fell asleep early.” 

Then the night progresses fairly uneventfully.

He witnesses a drug exchange at one point, though it was between two teenagers and a dog that tagged along with the buyer. 

No heists, no villain attacks, not even minor villains that don’t get the news spotlight much, which is slightly abnormal, but could be called a lucky night. It is rather quiet, and Roman silently thanks the city’s criminals for that. 

It’s about one in the morning when he’s absolutely completely ready to go to bed. By the time Roman starts to head back to his house, he has a permanent yawn on his tongue and a desire for coffee in his mind. 

He ambles on down the road— though making sure to take some odd turns and paths just in case. He’ll probably go into an empty gas station or something to change before actually going into his house. 

Is Remus still asleep? He’d leave the lights on if he knew he was going to sleep through the night, but somehow it usually doesn’t happen. Remus just sleeps for three or four hours at a time. 

Roman bumps into someone and murmurs an apology before continuing on. They nod back, looking as if they’re in a daze. 

A few more people show up on the sidewalk a street at a time, but he doesn’t notice at first, and just nods politely and walks past. A block down, there’s barely any room to brush past the groups of them. 

A heavy feeling settles in Roman’s stomach. He glances around the throng, at a momentary standstill. 

The faint noise of sirens gradually grow louder and he weaves through the people, then pushes through and shoves them aside, then barrels straight into someone. 

He gathers speed until he’s running down cracked sidewalks and noticing people all the way down the line, some milling around by business parking lots or grass patches. 

This road is pretty empty when it comes to buildings. The only one of importance is the lab. 

The lab that’s down the end of this road, the lab that would give people who worked there white and blue coats, and white and blue coats are flashing all around him. There are other people here too, ones covered in soot. 

Some realize who he is— a superhero on duty, or for the some who know him less vaguely, the Puppeteer Prince. That name is too long, honestly. 

Then the crowds part without stopping their murmurs of conversations. 

Roman screeches to a halt in front of a huge building that the end of this road leads in to. 

The heat of flames dance on his face, and ash trickles down like unfortunate rain. The labs are on fire; the entire building is on fire. 

Sirens swirl around in his head, blaring so loud the evacuated people closest to the building are covering their ears with their hands. Most are covered in ash and have singed clothes. The ones on the top floors, probably. 


End file.
